


little wonders

by ofstarsserene



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: F/M, and maybe some canon divergence?, idk we'll see how it goes, mostly pre-series masriel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:49:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23417746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofstarsserene/pseuds/ofstarsserene
Summary: one more collection of masriel one-shots. inspired by tumblr prompts dedicated to nonsexual acts of intimacy.
Relationships: Lord Asriel/Marisa Coulter
Comments: 19
Kudos: 50





	1. finding the other wearing their clothes

When Asriel wakes up, the world around him is golden and warm, as sunlight fills up the bedroom. Stelmaria yawns and stretches in the corner of the room, and Asriel mirrors his daemon. He blinks and rubs his eyes, chasing sleep away, and turns his head, expecting to see his lover’s delicate form - but the sheets are cold under Asriel's touch, and Marisa is nowhere to be found.

Asriel looks around the room in confusion. Marisa's dress is still on the floor, a pile of emerald green, next to a pair of high-heeled shoes that he knows are Marisa's favourite. He squints as his eyes find something sparkling on Marisa's pillow. Her necklace - or, should he say, _his_ necklace up until yesterday. His gift for her, without any particular reason, except for the fact that Marisa never wears silver (Edward prefers his wife in diamonds and gold), and putting a sapphire pendant, adorned with intricate silver patterns, on Marisa’s neck felt as close to making her _Lady Belacqua_ as Asriel could manage.

“She is downstairs.” Stelmaria says, sniffing the air. “The kitchen.”

Asriel can smell it too – coffee, strong brewed, mixed with something sweet. His guess would be on chocolatl, although heaven knows how Marisa managed to sneak it into his house. Whenever Marisa visited, the kitchen was never their primary destination.

Asriel climbs out of bed, clutching the pendant tightly in his hand. He leaves the room half-dressed – his shirt is mysteriously missing, but he has a feeling he might know where it ended up.

***

The kitchen is bathed in golden sunlight, just as the bedroom upstairs, and Asriel cannot help a smile appearing on his face, as his eyes linger on Marisa sipping her chocolatl and flipping through something that looks very much like his notebook. She runs her fingers through her hair and purses her lips when some detail in Asriel’s notes catches her attention, and Asriel approaches her slowly, trying not to break this mesmerizing spell with his footsteps.

His shirt fits Marisa perfectly, and Asriel is torn between wishing to savor the moment, so simple, yet so surreal in its domesticity, and wanting to rip said shirt off Marisa’s body, the memory of her curves always present under his fingertips.

The silence is broken by her daemon, who squeaks at the sight of Stelmaria. Marisa shivers, breaking her concentration, and her eyes meet Asriel’s, as the golden monkey starts playing with Stelmaria’s fur, the snow leopard purring in response.

Marisa smiles, and the smile is genuine and wide, a far cry from her usual predatory grin.

“Good morning,” she murmurs, sipping from her cup. “I hope you don’t mind me borrowing your clothes. You don’t need them anyway.”

“And what makes you say that?”

Asriel comes close enough for Marisa to trace her well-manicured finger up his bare chest.

“You don’t seem to be a big fan of clothes when I am around.”

Asriel chuckles at her words, but when she draws him in for a kiss, he backs away, her silver necklace dangling from his hand.

“And you don’t seem to be a fan of my gifts.”

Marisa's smile falters at the sight of the sapphire pendant. She lets out a heavy sigh and bites her lip, and Asriel frowns, unsure of what thoughts might be swirling in her head.

“Asriel, I…”, for a moment she struggles with words, and Asriel’s heart sinks, the lighthearted mood definitely ruined. “You know that I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Edward will ask questions.”

“So what? Tell him you bought it for yourself. You are not his prisoner, Marisa.”

She frowns at his words, and Asriel curses himself. He marvels at how even their sweetest moments can turn into a fight. He thinks it is a tiresome tendency.

“I thought we had an understanding.” Her quiet voice makes his blood boil. “About what this is.”

“Well, sorry for not thinking about your idiot husband when choosing to give you something beautiful.”

He throws the cursed necklace on the kitchen counter, almost hitting Marisa’s chocolatl cup. Marisa hisses under her breath, and her eyes dart between him and the piece of jewelry, but Asriel turns away from her questioning gaze. He opens the cabinet closest to him, starts banging pots and plates, completely ignoring the cup of coffee that Marisa made for him. 

He prefers tea anyway.

The kettle boils quickly, whistling, and by the time Asriel’s poured himself a cup, Marisa’s arms are on his waist, hugging him from behind. He doesn’t pay her any attention, his spoon clinking loudly as he stirs sugar into his tea, but the touch of Marisa’s soft lips on his shoulder makes his heart skip a bit. 

“Asriel, please,” her voice is but a gentle whisper. “Don’t let this ruin our morning.”

Her lips leave a tingling trail on his shoulder and neck, and Asriel involuntarily relaxes, his fingers intertwining with hers, as her hands are clasped tightly on his stomach. He doesn't want to fight with her when they finally have a weekend for themselves, but her words hurt him more than he could imagine.

“It really is beautiful, you know," Marisa whispers again. "I love it.”

Asriel turns to face her, and Marisa's embrace loosens a little. Still, she rubs his arms, keeping him close. Asriel is well aware of what she is doing – soothing his anger, as if he is a wild animal ready to bite. 

He doesn't like it when she tries to manipulate him.

"It doesn't seem like you love it though. Quite the opposite, in fact," he growls, stubbornly standing his ground, even though his anger is, to his annoyance, slowly dissipating under Marisa's touch.

“How about I promise to wear it while I am here, hm?” she tilts her head, and a small smile appears on her lips. She holds out her hand, opens her palm to reveal the silver chain. “Help me with this, will you?”

Marisa holds her hair up, as Ariel clasps the pendant around her neck. When she faces him again, she curls her fingers around the sapphire, toys with the chain, and her intent is so painfully obvious that Asriel snorts.

“There," she beams at him. "Are you happy now?”

He draws Marisa close, caressing her back. Asriel will have to accept the fragile truce between them. Mornings like this are no good for fighting, and he has no right to ask anything of her. He smiles back at Marisa, banishing a nagging thought that she will never be truly his...

She is here now – and the day has barely begun.

“Well, now I would like to get my shirt back.”

Marisa gives him a look that is somehow both innocent and naughty, and Asriel wants to kiss the smug expression away from her beautiful face.

“Oh, you’ll have to try much harder for that.”

“I think I’m up for the challenge.”

Asriel tastes Marisa’s laughter on his tongue, and he unbuttons her shirt ( _his_ shirt), making it fall from her shoulders. “Gorgeous…”, he breathes into her collarbone, but Marisa shuts him up with a rough kiss, her hands impatiently tugging his hair.

As they make love, frantically clinging to each other in the sunlit kitchen, her pendant scratches his chest. Asriel doesn’t mind.


	2. holding hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this one is clearly far from just holding hands, it’s more like… hands in general? It’s a stretch, but we do have a lot of hands. Bear with me, guys.

“Asriel, you missed our new arrivals. It’s not very hospitable of you.”

Asriel hums, dismissing the voice that broke the silence around him. His eyes are focused on a map of the mountains. He’s been here for three days now, and he still hasn’t found a spot to set up a camp. He is just losing time, and he is losing money (this Northern expedition cost him quite a fortune) – but perhaps this is finally it. 

That slope over there, on the eastern side. The wind will be strong though. Might be dangerous. But there should be caves nearby, in case one needs to seek shelter…

A glass of whiskey is placed right on top of Asriel’s markings, and when he lifts the glass, it leaves a stain. Asriel frowns at the person guilty of such an offense, and of course it would be no other than Graham Nollner – his former classmate, a first-cousin-twice-removed to someone from the royal family, and, consequently, a royal pain in the ass. 

“They are all here, finally.” Graham takes a sip straight from the bottle, blatantly ignoring Asriel’s death stare. “Let’s go. You’ve been sitting here all day.”

“Because this is vital to our mission.”

“No, it’s because you hate people.” Graham bumps into Asriel’s shoulder, bending closer to the map and wiping whiskey from it. “But you can’t hide here forever, you know. You are in charge, they need some sort of assignments from you.”

“They are grown men, they can find their own way around the station.”

“And if they do that, you will hate them even more.”

Asriel cannot argue with that. A ruckus caused by those amateurs will drive him insane.

“Fine,” he ignores it when Graham grins. “But I am taking this glass with me. I can’t cope with them sober.”

Graham just shrugs. “Whatever you are comfortable with. Just don’t splash it into anyone’s face.”

The gathering room is stuffy and noisy. Most of the faces Asriel sees are new to him – he really did miss quite a lot of people arriving. Some are seemingly excited to be here, buzzing with the energy that will surely disappear once they realise this is no picnic. Some are already shivering from the cold, and Asriel remembers not to let them leave the facility, so he can save himself hours of complaining. All men, he thinks, all these egos that he needs to deal with.

A woman’s face in this crowd is a surprise indeed. 

“Who is that?”

“Coulter.” Graham says, as if it’s some kind of well-known fact. When he sees that Asriel obviously doesn’t put two and two together, he continues. “Marisa Coulter? You wanted someone from St. Sophia, remember? She is their best girl.”

“Did I?” 

This whole affair is not even his own idea. He would be more than glad to explore the vast lands of the North alone, but the Master insisted on a team of Oxford scholars, eager to put Asriel’s riches to use when it came to Jordan’s friendly support of other, less prominent colleges. An assembly of academics is the last thing that Asriel needs, when the way to achieve his goal includes a lot of sweating and even more swearing, but he understands that for the next several months he will have to learn to subdue his irritation. 

“Wait, Coulter? As in Edward Coulter?” Realization hits him, as a sip of whiskey burns his tongue, and when Graham nods in response, Asriel knows the connection was made correctly. “Didn’t know he had a sister.”

“A _wife_ , Asriel.” Graham sounds as appalled as he looks. “Honestly, don’t you read any papers?”

Asriel did _not_ , in fact, read any papers, because he honestly didn’t care (not that Graham, a man whose interests are so deeply rooted in the glitter and gold of high society, would ever understand that).

So, it’s Mrs. Coulter then. A politician’s wife and a St. Sophia scholar. Asriel is not sure if he likes this combination. The woman seems strangely relaxed though, chatting away with some chap that is enjoying her attention too much.

Asriel keeps studying her across the room, and when she finally catches him staring, she doesn’t even flinch. A refreshing reaction, Asriel thinks, as she makes her way towards him.

“I believe we haven’t been introduced yet.” She holds out her hand, as he takes her in. At first glance she seems harmless enough, but there is something about her he cannot place. “Marisa Coulter.”

Her handshake is firm, yet not overbearing. She smiles at him, but her eyes shine with a hint of superiority, and Asriel smirks, squeezing her fingers a little too tight before letting go. He pretends he doesn’t notice her quiet hiss.

“Asriel Belacqua.” He downs his drink, holding her gaze. “Welcome to the team, Mrs. Coulter.”

She nods at him, her lips curving slightly. Only a half-smile this time, but Asriel knows her type, can see through her demeanor. He hopes she won’t be a problem – sending her corpse to her husband is not on Asriel’s list.

Stelmaria growls by his side, and he notices Mrs. Coulter’s daemon. A weird-looking monkey.

Asriel thinks it’s fitting. 

***

“Coulter, with me.”

Marisa raises her head from her notes, and Asriel can see she is annoyed, being disturbed in her room like that, but it’s not his problem.

“I am not finished with these. Can it wait?”

“No, it can not.”

Walking away, Asriel can hear Marisa’s monkey making an unpleasant sound, but Marisa soon joins him in the corridor, and she is smart enough not to ask any more questions.

Asriel likes this about her.

He leads her to the kitchen and tells her to sit while he searches for a medical kit.

“Hand.” He demands after setting medical supplies on the table. Marisa gives him the side-eye.

“I don’t understand.”

“Give me your hand. Your wound needs cleaning.”

Marisa squints at him, clearly suspicious, but stretches out her hand nevertheless. Asriel chuckles, but then concentrates on his task. The cut on Marisa’s forearm is nasty, and Asriel feels slightly responsible. He was impatient, assembled the machine too quickly, did not secure the blades well enough. He didn’t count for that when he asked Marisa for help.

Marisa winces when Asriel cleans the wound with alcohol.

“You need to change bandages. It will get infected if you are not careful.”

“I guess I lost track of time.” Asriel can feel her eyes on him, trying to figure him out.

“I don’t see you fretting over others.” Her voice is more teasing than amazed at his behavior. “Does this mean I am special?”

“You are useful.” Asriel doesn’t want her to get any ideas. “You were good with that equipment, and you didn’t scream bloody murder when things went wrong. Not all scholars in here would be as calm as you were.”

“It’s just a cut.”

“See? You are rational, that’s good.”

Marisa gives him a tiny smile. Asriel hides his own, bowing his head to inspect her wound more closely.

“Besides, if it’s infected, I’ll have to fetch for some serious medications, and this is more money out of my pocket.” Asriel wraps her arm in clean bandages, and he feels her monkey watching him, as if assessing his actions. “And if you get a fever, you will be bedridden, which means I’ll have to argue with Graham on my own, and I am not sure I am ready for that.”

Marisa laughs, and Asriel thinks he never heard her laugh before, at least not in his company.

She covers his hand with hers, when he checks if the bandages are tight enough.

“Thank you, Asriel.”

He returns her smile this time.

“You are welcome, Marisa.”

***

Asriel is the last one to come back to England. He would gladly stay up North a week or two more, observing, calculating and making plans for further exploration, but it’s time he presented his findings in Jordan. He knows it’s not much, but he hopes the Master will be pleased nevertheless.

A scalding shower chases the Northern chill out of his bones, and when Asriel drops into a chair next to the cracking fireplace, he finds himself already missing the sound of a freezing wind howling in the distance.  
It’s almost midnight when he notices a letter siting on his desk. 

“What is it?” Stelmaria asks as he skims over the contents, grinning to himself as he recognizes the handwriting.

“It’s Marisa. An invitation. She organizes a soiree tomorrow.”

“And you plan to go?”

Asriel shrugs his shoulders, putting the letter aside.

“A party never hurts.”

“But you hate gatherings like this.”

“Oh, but we wouldn’t want to be impolite, would we?”

Stelmaria huffs. “Don’t get too excited.”

Asriel ignores her scoffing.

He owns only one suit fit for the occasion, and it’s not in best condition. At first Asriel wants to say ‘screw it’. He is not the one to play dress-up. And yet he hasn’t seen Marisa for several weeks, and there is a nagging thought in his head that he should at least give it a try. 

He makes Thorold mend it, and when Thorold raises a brow, Asriel just dismisses him. Asriel is not sure who he is more irritated with – Thorold, for being surprised, or himself, for actually wanting to impress a woman.

He decides to be fashionably late, to compensate for those pathetic thoughts, and when he enters a room already full of people, he stops, frozen in place.

He is used to seeing Marisa in clothes fit for long travel and hard work, her hair in a messy bun or in a loose ponytail. Weeks spent working side by side with her did not prepare him for her curls softly falling on her shoulders and for a dress that makes her look like a duchess or a queen.

She is the center of everyone’s attention, thriving in her element, and Asriel suddenly feels like it was a silly idea to come here. But she spots him from where she is standing, engaged in a conversation with some scholars Asriel thinks he recognizes. She grins at him, with that familiar glint in her eyes that Asriel never realized he missed – and by the time Marisa is by his side, Asriel knows this place is exactly where he needs to be right now.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d received my invitation.” Her fingers brush the back of his hand when she reaches to tug at his sleeve, and in this briefest of moments Asriel could swear there is a hint of timid nervousness to her touch. “I’m glad you are here.”

“Seems quite a party. Half of London in one room – impressive.”

She makes a face at him, something between amusement and irritation. “Oh please, if only you knew how boring most of these people can be.”

He won’t argue with that.

“Come. Edward insisted on inviting Fra Pavel, and I need someone to help me deal with his incessant droning.”

It’s half an hour and two drinks later when Marisa introduces Asriel to her husband. Edward kisses her cheek and winds his arms around her, and the gesture is so obviously possessive that Asriel finds it distasteful. 

He feels hot sparks of jealousy biting at his heart.

When the party is over and all the guests are saying their last words of gratitude to their hosts, Asriel makes sure to kiss Marisa’s hand for several more seconds than would be considered proper. When he looks at her again, he cannot help noticing, even in the dark, that Marisa is blushing.

Jealousy gives way to cockiness, and as Asriel walks away, there is a spring in his step. 

Stelmaria chides him. “She is not yours, Asriel.”

No, she is not. But she will be.

***

It’s 3 a.m., the witching hour, and even though Asriel does not believe in such nonsense, he thinks that tonight there might be some truth to it. For tonight he is utterly bewitched, almost driven to madness, insatiable for Marisa’s scent and touch. She is as eager as he is, her deft fingers unbuttoning his shirt with swift efficiency, while he struggles with the zipper on her dress. When they are finally free from their layers of clothing, he lowers her on his bed, stretches her arms above her head, so that their bodies are perfectly aligned, not an inch of distance between them.

He kisses her open palm, bites her wrist, continues down her arm with a trail of sloppy kisses, while she tries to catch his earlobe between her teeth. They are a mess of tangled limbs, hot breaths and stifled moans, pure chaos in the flesh.

When he kisses her, biting her lip, she intertwines her fingers with his, as they rock to the rhythm whispered by their deepest desires. She moans his name, loud and clear, and he doesn’t hold back, drunk on her body, ready to give her his very soul for a moment of clarity that comes when she trembles underneath him, sending him over the edge with her.

Later, when they lie in bed, not quite awake, but not ready to succumb to sleep just yet, he plays with her fingers, kisses them one by one, marveling at how delicate they are and how easily they can draw blood when she wishes to hurt him.

They fall asleep holding hands, and when he wakes up in the morning, it’s Marisa kissing him on the wrist with languid tenderness, and it’s a bittersweet ache that follows him for hours after Marisa is gone.

***

The Aurora is glowing above his head. Asriel holds his breath, triumphant at last. All these years, all the sacrifices made, and all the friends forsaken have been worth it, and Asriel sees the path to his future, golden dust flowing through the cracks. He takes a look around him, as the reality of it all sinks in, and he turns his back on the world, ready to step into the unknown.

Yet, something stops him in his tracks, a dull ache that he hasn’t felt for a very long time. It takes him a moment to realize she is here. He senses Marisa seconds before Stelmaria notices her too. 

“If you’re here to stop me, you’re too late.”

“Too late to stop the experiment, yes, but not too late to stop you.”

He holds her at gunpoint, because, knowing her, it is a sensible thing to do, and deep down he thinks she might even enjoy it. He truly is pleased to see Marisa, after years of avoiding even a mention of her. Having her standing here, alone, but unyielding, beautiful in her defiance, brings back long-buried memories, and Asriel is ashamed to admit that he still wishes to prove himself to her, still craves her presence, her cruelty, and her genius.

He beckons her to come closer, to relish in the feeling of golden warmth, of this otherworldly sunlight that makes everything possible.

When Marisa finally relents, her eyes widening in awe and her hand brushing his as she stands near him, Asriel is overcome with a desperate need – he needs her on this journey, can think of no other to share this with, because together they will rule the world.

“Marisa, come with me,” – and it’s both an order and a plea, and the image of a new start with her (no Magisterium to control them, no fear, or oppression, or guilt) is so vivid in his imagination that Asriel cannot help but kiss her.

Even after thirteen years she tastes like heaven.

She pulls away first, steps back, shaking her head, but he won’t let her run, not this time, when the future he wants is waiting for him right there, blinding him with light.

“You used to want to change the world. Then leave the Magisterium. Come with me, and we can change them all.”

Asriel stretches out his hand. The decision is hers, and he wants to make it look like he won’t wait forever, even though he knows that he would stand here, at the top of the mountain, for centuries, reaching out to her, waiting for Marisa to take the final step.

“But our child is in this world,” she says, and Asriel frowns. This has nothing to do with Lyra, prophecy be damned. 

“My place is with her,” – and Asriel feels that he is losing this fight. He cannot understand where this bond between Marisa and Lyra came from, but he knows Marisa’s stubbornness, and she will stand her ground.

“She is your daughter, Marisa. _Our_ daughter. She is curious, and relentless, and brave, and she wants to understand Dust as much as we do.” He is not sure if he believes these things that he is saying, but if it brings Marisa to him, he will lie through his teeth. “Lyra will come. She will cross this bridge, and we will be there, ready to meet her on the other side. Whatever it is out there, Lyra is a part of this too.” 

There is hesitation on Marisa’s face, a struggle he cannot understand, but the one that he surely must put an end to. 

“Don’t you see, Marisa? This is our chance to start again.”

Their daemons are cuddling in the snow, and Marisa’s eyes dart between them and Asriel. Asriel has never seen her so conflicted and torn. She closes her eyes and clenches her fists, and he moves closer to her, puts his hand on her shoulder.

Lyra will come. Marisa has to believe it (and maybe he starts to believe it, too.)

When Marisa opens her eyes again, there is determination in them, and Asriel huffs, victorious.

Her hand is warm in his, as they step into the light and disappear from view, their daemons following them shortly.


End file.
